


Flowers for Eve

by Emerian



Series: A is for Apocryphal [2]
Category: Fate/Apocrypha
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2019-08-04 13:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16347254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerian/pseuds/Emerian
Summary: In which the homunculi rebellion isn’t sidelined and shades of heroism shift from Red and Black to freedom and righteousness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapters' lengths will vary. like a lot. 
> 
> (i'm trying a shorter prose style anyway)
> 
> anyway, it's basically inspired by this post: http://kurozu501.tumblr.com/post/167513225082/sosei-kurozu501-fate-apocrypha-au-where-siegs.

The first thing Shakespeare decides to do upon learning the apparent enemy uses homunculi—what marvelous creatures, indeed!—is pay a visit to their resident Berserker.

If there is a chance to stroke raging flames, then he’ll gladly become the poker stick. Provided he survive to witness the result, of course.

And it’s not like anyone else wants to step up to plate. Semiramis'll be indifferent but Amakusa Shirou not objecting is unthinkable. For all the good his fire-forged maturity and wisdom does him, Amakusa Shirou fails to recognize that rescinding one’s humanity to become something similar to a homunculus is far from perfection.

As much as he abhors the thought, Shakespeare would prefer a life of obscurity than ever relinquish his quill. Or pen.

But because Shakespeare is a gentleman he neglects to mention his observations. How else will Amakusa Shirou learn how to navigate the world as an adult? Semiramis and Shakespeare won’t be around to hold his hands forever. He suspects Semiramis wouldn't mind, though, and wisely keeps that thought close.

His companions for this Grail War ooze tragedies. They’re like aging wine. And all of them refuse to give him the time of day when they see the gleam in his eyes. Understandable and unacceptable.

He learns quickly that Achilles doesn’t care for most interpretations, except when it slights his honor, and Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida slighted his honor. To be fair, the Achilles he read about had seemed like a man who’d act on the basis of being petty. Just another reason why he needs to get a personal account after the Rider ceases tearing the halls apart for him much to Semiramis’ explosive ire. He only caught a glimpse of her lovely visage twisted from anger once before high-tailing out of there. There’s only so much his [Self-Preservation] can handle. Or his heart, really.

Karna and Atalanta are less interesting, inherently. It’s a foregone conclusion: being female and/or decently attractive in Ancient Greece, or the strongest warrior, beholden to the antagonist. Oh, he does not doubt that the right narrative can bring out the best of emotions, but he’s aiming for bigger  _pizzazz_ and _oomph_ for now.

Nothing like throwing a rebel at a group in desperate need of a revolution to spice it up, hmm?

Though it's for the better, he’s a little miffed how quickly Semiramis’ animosity melts when he bids adieu to her and Amakusa Shirou after a meeting.

 

~~~

 

Finding any Red Servant is easy enough. Ensuring they'll stick around is significantly harder.

Berserkers are flighty or sedentary things, and Shakespeare knows their Berserker is the former. Well, there's only one bit of evidence, strong it might be. He had briefly heard the former Master complaining about the disinterest in anything else, perking up when the word "battle" was mentioned. And considering the Red Faction needed to keep its members together, his guess shouldn't be too far.

Spartacus has been hanging around in a clearing, and Shakespeare has never been good at planning ahead; he's more of a in-the-heat-of-the-moment kind of guy, so he waltzes into view. 

“Oh, Berserker! I say my good sir, have you heard any of the news we received about our enemies?” He greets the beast of a man with a smile and bow. 

Spartacus stares at him, smile still in place. How ghastly, this mindless joy of his! There is no kinder way to put it. This unwavering grin deserves a proper resolution—determination bubbles up and Shakespeare is more than inclined to think this Berserker is processing his words, developing a response.

It will be the absolute worst if this beast of a man turns out to be a red herring. 

"You are an oppressor," Spartacus says, voice rumbling like an approaching landslide. He doesn't move, beady eyes taking in Shakespeare's unwavering confidence.  "To approach me like this…you must long for death, even though you are unarmed. Now, to answer your question: no. I haven't heard anything of interest lately." 

Shakespeare smiles, undeterred. Everyone gets threatened at some point. He can always use First Folio if needed. 

Holding out his arms, he goes for a diplomatic rebuttal. "Why, I would never settle for the Grail, for I am a playwright. Is it wrong of me to want to see the depths of a person's honesty for a genuine performance?"

"Those who do not strive for that tainted cup are of no interest to me," Spartacus answers after a moment of reflection. "I find your reasoning to be encouraging, sympathetic even. Relay your message." 

He takes great relish in conveying the situation to him.

Spartacus' reaction is to stand there, a statue out of time. His ghastly smile is set in stone, too. 

Shakespeare blanches. He's sure he had used plenty of gestures to grab the Berserker's attention.

"...erm, Berserker, might you be having trouble seeking out the enemy?" Shakespeare almost edges closer, and reminds himself that Spartacus' arms are bigger than tree trunks. 

"Do you share these sentiments, these tears I feel for these homunculi?” The smile slowly curves down. 

He'll admit to being cheeky with some of his plays but not from deep-seated rebellious sentiments. Refraining from the subject constrains his abilities entirely. To keep writing the same archetypes over and over again is a disservice. Alas, he would prefer to keep his hands and life intact, unlike ill-fated Kyd and Marlowe.

"In a way, you'd be correct, Berserker," Shakespeare replies. "The prize does not interest me—no, sir, no! My wish is being fulfilled as we speak—it is to witness the story unfold around this chalice of dreams, to put a pen to paper and record this remarkable gathering of heroes! And that means having all actors put their skill to the test. No one is an extra—these poor homunculi had their emotions locked away and I simply cannot stand for it!"

"...you're no oppressor—" 

"—[Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown]—" Shakespeare adds helpfully. Not once has he claimed to be one of the countless characters he's put his pen to. 

"—at least, not one in need of culling, and only a bard," Spartacus finishes, and Shakespeare chances a peek around the tree after an uneventful moment. "You intend to cajole me into raining retribution upon the Black Faction. That is acceptable. This is precisely the only road left to insurgents such as I.”

Shakespeare feels a little offended when Spartacus smiles knowingly.

“And I will never lay a hand on an obviously inferior opponent."

“That is very appreciated, thank you." Shakespeare frowns. "However, you seem to be...er... _conflicted_ , for such an undaunted man." 

“To me, the word ‘wait’ does not exist. The hardest choices always require the hardest convictions. But this is not a situation for all-out battle, as much as I hate the thought." If he had been saner, Shakespeare thinks this would've been the perfect moment to clasp a hand on his shoulder. "How can I allow myself to let these slaves continue their existence? How can I let these oppressors continue to run amok? They need to be exiled into the darkest corners of history."

_Good god, how did Assassin think Spartacus to be a simple beast?_

"Playwright, will you aid my endeavor in freeing these homunculi?"  

Shakespeare beams brighter than the sun. "I should like nothing less!"

"You have my appreciation."

His cape dramatically billows in the wind and he says, "Come, let us begin the preparations for the grandest shuffle of the Great Holy Grail War!" 

 

———

 

Chills ripple all over Mordred’s back and she scowls. Unpleasant thoughts parade about in her mind. It's not because Kairi's done with scavenging the corpses _—gross_ —which means it's almost time to go back.

Of course she's not ecstatic at the prospect of returning to those dank catacombs.

Damn necromancers.

Sure, sure, she gets the gist of the leylines and even with situations that call for hunkering down in unpleasant places but that didn't mean she has to like it. There is nothing to do in them. Except watch Kairi work on his weaponry. But that had its limits and Mordred didn’t like the smell of that baby hydra she’d seen.

Killing the Yggd-whatsits' golems hadn't sated her desire to do something, to do anything. Coupled with the fact that these homunculi let themselves be subjugated by the Black Faction, Mordred has more than enough reasonable grounds to burst.

But the cause is neither. It doesn't matter if she avoids looking at the corpses' faces—that's not important. At least, not now. 

Her spine keeps collecting chills at the base. Is it really [Instinct] kicking in if Mordred had already figured out that this Grail War is gonna be tense and shit?

Somewhere.

Somehow.

Something is going to happen and Mordred _is going to hate every single second of it_. Her knuckles clench. Muscles go taut and teeth grind down, almost painfully. A frustrated growl rips free from her mouth before she kicks a nearby lamppost. Glass scatter and embers skip across the ground before sizzling into nothing.

Kairi looks disapprovingly at the casualty embedded in a nearby building and asks, "Is it the clothes? Are they that bad?"

"'Course they suck," Mordred says on instinct, turning away.

“If it's any consolation, I’m sure you cut a striking figure. Don’t kings like boasting and being the center of attention?”

She stamps out budding pleasure of him calling her a king—like the proper address going to save him. Whirling around, she shouts, “I don’t want to hear that from you! Not while you're elbows-deep in some chest!"

Kairi looks back and forth between the corpse and his bloody arms. In a grave tone, he says, “I’m wearing gloves. They’re coated with antibiotics if it makes you feel better."

"The _hell_ are antibiotics?"

"A magical potion that fights your inner demons. Just like an Anti-Army Noble Phantasm." He looks like he wants to scratch his beard but thinks better of it.

"But...they're _corpses_."

Kairi chuckles. She lets it slide when she realizes it isn't out of maliciousness, warily lowering her fists.

"Like you said, these towns are known for preserving their medieval appearances, but I'm not keen on catching their diseases. Bit much, don't you think?"

Mordred snorts because it's not inaccurate with what the Grail shoved into her mind.

"Anyway, what's the long face for?"

“Nothing important,” she says curtly. 

He raises an eyebrow and jerks his head at the lamppost. Mordred is unmoved.

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m very sure,” she snaps. “I’m a Servant so I’ll leave the doubting to shady Masters like you.”

“…tell you what,” he starts, studying her with an emotion Mordred instantly hates because she can’t figure it out, “lay off the snacks and I’ll scrounge up some change. Then I can get you something else.”

Well. How about that for a change? She contemplates the offer. She's used to going without food when Morgan’s been bitchier than usual, so this is nothing new. And equivalent exchanges leave no gray areas for debts. Nodding to herself, she flashes her canine teeth at him.  

“I’ll take you up on that.” She narrows her eyes. “And hold you to it."

Kairi shrugs it off easily. “We're partners, Saber. It’s only natural that I listen to your requests." 

Mordred is extremely pleased at the concession until Kairi opens his big mouth again.

"You know, I'd thought it be something weird you were sensing, as if one of your relatives was summoned. It's possible that it could be an unconscious urge, especially if King Arthur himself—" 

_”—don’t joke about shit like that!”_

”Sorry, sorry.” Kairi's mouth twitches. “But come on, humor me for a bit! You've got the Knight of Treachery on the Association's side and he’s supposed to punish the Yggdmillennian fugitives and a runaway King of Knights. You can't tell me that isn't ironic at all!" His ensuing laughter shows no signs of petering out.  

She contemplates shoving his head into the open wound.

...no. Knowing necromancers, it’ll just rejuvenate his skin or some other miraculous shit.

"God, I swear on my sword," Mordred grumbles and crosses her arms, ignoring the snickering, "if Father really is Saber of Black because of your big mouth..."

She is never going to get used to civil conversations. Much less people willingly dropping it.


	2. Chapter 2

Stars are free to roam here and there in a cloudless sky. A warm and unhindered wind cascades through Atalanta's hair. Shaking her head rids her of bangs falling into her face. She's leaning against a pillar, crossing her arms, and breathes in the crisp air. It's much sharper up north, these summer nights. Being human again doesn't help, either. But for once there's only the soothing silence of a nighttime atmosphere. 

If one ignores Achilles. 

In the dead of night, he conveys his understandable ire by flopping over a balcony's banister encircling one of the many towers of Sighisoara. 

"Damn him." Achilles keeps muttering curses under his breath like he has been doing for most of the day. For this reason, she's been busying herself by hunting game. However, not even bringing back a snack appeases him. 

“You’re giving him exactly what he wants,” Atalanta says, when he gives her a sulky look over his shoulder. “Why do you let yourself be swayed by his poison?”

Achilles answers her with a stretched-out groan. His frame remains seized by anger, huffing like a wounded animal. Closer to a bruised pride, she thinks. 

“You wouldn’t be saying that if he had badmouthed your dream instead,” he mutters, hands clutching the poles. 

“You’re correct, but I know my wish is righteous no matter what others may claim. It is merely an instinct for me to suppress." There are people who have capacities for selfishness greater than any Olympian and Jason in every era. It would be a waste of time to explode when she could just threaten them into silence.  "It hinges on him interfering." 

"Heh." He turns around, letting the banister support his back. "In that case, I wonder if he'd bring his full arsenal against you." 

She narrows her eyes. "I‘m still not privy to this play's contents." 

Achilles releases another sharp laugh and barks, "Apparently I ordered the Myrmidons to kill Hector by sneaking up on him! There are just some things I can’t let go of,” he continues, when she keeps stewing in silence, “There’s nothing comedic or honorable about sneaking up on an enemy. You know me—" 

"—not that well—"

"—yet." His dazzling smile is wiped off when confronted with her growing revulsion, becoming serious again. "Sorry. That's just not what heroes are supposed to do."

"Not starry-eyed heroes, you mean," Atalanta remarks. She briefly ponders telling him that she wouldn't be opposed to similar strategies, but decides not to. It'll undermine her argument. "I'm sure you're well aware of our countrymen's reputation. Shakespeare was only making a logical guess.”

“That’s not what being a hero is about, sis! Caster can write about the ridiculousness of my epic all he wants—but not allowing me to face enemies head-on?” Achilles shakes his head. "He's talking nonsense." 

Atalanta comes closer to point a finger in his face. “Then what is?”

He blinks and stares at her like she’s not catching onto the obvious even though Atalanta is well aware of the romanticized heroism Achilles embodies.

She sighs and opens the connection between her and the Grail after lowering her finger. Accessing the database takes a mere moment and knowledge is woven into her mind seamlessly. As expected, there is nothing about Shakespeare other than that he is a "famous playwright" and his masterpieces' titles. 

Her thoughts turn back to his words. 

“Is this about Patroclus?” Atalanta asks finally. “Because your vengeful song was quelled?"

“My life is my own life.” Achilles’ noble face turns away. "I made my choice. It was taken from him." 

Atalanta observes him for a moment, before letting it go, turning to the horizon. She can understand his sentiment, for she is reminded of Meleager. If she had not been so averse to consummation, perhaps she wouldn't have refused Meleager's courtship—the only man she has ever come close to trusting completely. At the time, the benefits of a partnership appealed to her senses, in spite of her commitment to Artemis.

But she understands his pain of harrowing fates. It still seems silly, but she comprehends his justifiable anger for Shakespeare.

Fabrics rustle, and Achilles suddenly asks, "Isn't Saber and their Master holed up in Trifas?" 

Atalanta slowly drags her gaze from the dark horizon to give him a halfhearted scowl. "...I believe so. Rider, you can't possibly—" 

"—might as well go scout out the Black Faction." He shrugs, unaffected. Perhaps there is something of Peleus in his son—Peleus had an uncanny ability to endure her frosty exterior. 

"And if we so happen to run the risk of overstepping the priest's limits?" Atalanta's not warming to the idea; its merits are outweighed by the risks. 

“We'll see who he really is. Shirou acts more like our Master than a messenger." Achilles pauses. "He's not like Assassin completely—that snooty queen—but he has...a similar demeanor. He's just not as overt." 

"There is also how we were summoned without our Masters present," she concedes. "Although I wouldn't remove Magi's cowardice from the theory." 

"You see?" He slaps his knee, and she sighs at his brash words. At least he can back up his words with unparalleled skill. "Come on. What do you think'll happen if a guy like Shirou's after the Grail?" 

Atalanta shut her eyes for a second. "All right. Say we go: shall we bring Lancer along?" 

"It's a waste of time. The guy's got a loyalty complex. I think he'd self-destruct at the thought of disobeying his Master." 

"Surely you're exaggerating, Rider." 

"I would be if he hadn't squared off with Ruler." For what it's worth, Achilles doesn't seem to take pleasure in disproving her. " _Also_  on Shirou's behalf."

It's always the quiet ones to watch out for. She won't trust Karna to not get in her way till he proves it, especially when his Master orders him to defeat the remaining Red Servants.

Gritting her teeth, she decides on vetoing this entire idea when Achilles declares, "I won't challenge you for the Grail." 

Atalanta's heart comes to an abrupt stop, almost painfully. She looks up to see Achilles' eyes brimming with sincerity. He's dropped all the previous enthusiasm for seeking out a battle. 

"My wish is something that can't be fulfilled by it. It's useless to me." 

Atalanta swallows the thick lump in her throat, and says, “Swear on yourmother.”She can't believe her ears as Achilles duly does so. His lack of hesitation means she must follow through...but she's somewhat comforted by his solemnity.  

"Fine." There is something strange about how easily her breathing comes to her; she's still wary about the prospect. "If they decide to bring out their Noble Phantasms, we  _will_ retreat. Is that clear?"

"But I'll be watching your back! How high are the odds of them bypassing Andreias Amarantos?" he wiggles his eyebrows at her and her tail smacks him in return. 

"Even if I have to carry you off, then so be it."  _He's cheeky, just like a child._  

"Crystal." 

Not that Atalanta would tolerate it, but if they get reprimanded, it better be from their Masters and not the priest. She doesn't want to be confronted with further obstacles to the Holy Grail. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i want to write another romantic relationship but i'm not sure what. sieg/astolfo got shoved aside for sieg/jeanne so i'm not like working with nothing there. any suggestions? fran/mordred and atalanta/achilles are off the table though.


	3. Chapter 3

Sunshine dissolves into a light sprinkle by the time they reach Trifas’ outskirts. It’s not much of an inconvenience for Atalanta, but for some reason Achilles thinks it won’t stop anytime soon, so they’ve been waiting under a tree for almost half an hour now.

Purely out of a hunter’s inclinations, Atalanta is somewhat fond of the rain. Her scent is masked, prey will be unable to accurately predict footfalls. Other than that—

“—Isn’t rain nothing for a hunter like you?” Achilles asks, when she paws at one of her ears. A particularly large droplet had almost slipped in.

“Hmph.” She cranes her head up. The tree they’re under is adequate, but she decides on stepping back to make better use of the foliage. “This is nothing. But it may be better to continue in spirit form. I don’t see why we should stop for this so-called storm.”

“Well there’s no need to rush.”

“Is there? We are in the opening stages of a Holy Grail War.”

He chuckles. “When I was a kid, I kept getting into trouble every time Chiron turned around. So to get me to stop, he told me that constantly fighting was all well and good, but moderation is mandatory.”

"I see you ignored his advice unless fighting was involved." 

"You could say that. But I'm a Heroic Spirit now. And it's still noon." 

So Achilles would only use the great sage’s wisdom only to his advantage? Although he isn’t being actively malicious, Atalanta prefers him as he usually is: blunt and open. Subterfuge used for matters other than hunting and fighting is one of the quickest routes to losing Atalanta’s respect and consideration. She shakes her head to herself. He’s being quite the unruly little brother but as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, it stirs up a warm feeling.

“You needn’t twist others’ words to get what you want.”

“Really? I'm glad to just spend time with you, sis.”

"You may ask properly once you've routed the Black Faction." 

Atalanta doesn’t have to glance over to him to see the pout. Mostly because she’s figured out most of his typical reactions, but because her nose twitches in response to a change in the environment’s smell. Her hair stands on end and she sniffs the air again, netting a decidedly human smell. Some sort of sappy smell is coating the approaching Servant.

“Is it them?”

“It is still daylight and Magi are surprisingly unable to stray from that rule,” she answers. “I presume them to be Saber of Red. Be on your guard.”

The Servant in question isn’t exactly what she expected. It’s a teenager wearing a bright red shirt, with the word _Buster_ emblazoned across, under a leather jacket. And for some reason, she’s supporting a sizeable log on her shoulder effortlessly.

“Lancer isn’t the only one with nice legs,” she hears Achilles mutter. His appreciative eyes linger in his examination; the teenager’s body is mostly lean muscle, even with the slight curves.

But teenager or adolescent, Atalanta doesn’t like it. Those strange cut-off shorts aren’t helping the situation. Her tail smacks his arm.

“Aw, sis, you’re pretty too.” He grins up at her.

She shakes her head slightly. He shrugs and his eyes stay above the shoulders this time.

When the Servant reaches them, she drops the log. It crashes: birds scatter, leaves flutter, and the teenager scowls when mud had splashed her boots.

“What are you doing here?” She sizes them both up, jutting out her chin defiantly. “Thought the priest wanted everyone holding hands, with the way he insisted me and my Master join up with you lot? Or was he just being a dick?"

A teenager bullying two adults? If she were younger, Atalanta would’ve disciplined her on the spot. For now, she will let it pass since it will only bring further arguments. But the ease she sports in exercising her capacity for rudeness has Atalanta sighing mentally, barely holding back her frustration with this unruly child. Teenagers are shaped like children and subsist on making their elders suffer. Though admittedly she’s a little uneasy about seeing a younger Heroic Spirit. It doesn’t matter if she met her Class’ requirements by appearing in her youth.

“We aren’t here because of Shirou,” Achilles says. “Well, not because of what you’re thinking. Pissing him and Assassin off is just a bonus.”

“Huh?” Her hostility evaporates for a moment. She must’ve been startled by their honesty. Then again she had met with the secretive priest, and though Atalanta hadn’t any idea of what the Master was like, Magi’s fickle nature spell out probable answers.

“I am Archer.” Atalanta gestures at Achilles as she continues, “And he is Rider.”

Achilles waves a hand in greeting.

“Saber,” she spits out after a moment of visible contemplation. “But seriously… here I was, hoping to let off some steam. Where the hell are the Black Servants, anyway?”

Atalanta can’t help blinking at her hunch’s confirmation. Out of all the people in Trifas, their Saber is the first encounter.

And then Achilles’ face lights up. She feels the start of a headache coming on despite this being their original intention. 

“You’ll be glad to hear that we’re gonna scout the Black Faction tonight. You up for it?” He stands up, grinning. 

To her surprise, Saber looks upset at his words. She even lets out a low, impatient growl.

“Damn.” she swears again, under her breath. “We’re supposed to go back to Sighisoara soon ‘cause my Master’s boss said so. Hell if I know why.”   

“I'm not hearing a no.”

“Shut up. I want a piece of the action more than you do, but I kind of need his mana to live, idiot." 

Achilles just looks amused with Saber's glaring.  

Atalanta steps in, because they'll get nowhere if she leaves Achilles to his devices. "And why are you out here, if your Master's lord decreed a return?" 

Saber rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “My Master’s a cheapskate. So I’ve been helping out the commoners with whatever they can’t do. It’s beneath me, but I just want some funding for my wardrobe. I’m a knight—I must look respectable.”

“I think you look already adorable enough. Girls are good at—"

Saber's jade eyes flash with white-hot rage and she strides forward to grab Achilles by his scarf—he's too tall—and yanks him down to her level. Achilles blinks, unfazed by her aggression, which only serves to stroke her flames. Atalanta had been too startled by the sudden change in demeanor to decide if interfering was right, but Achilles could take care of himself. Though she readies herself to pull Tauropolos' string, considering she doesn't have much faith in Saber's ability to stay her hand from friendly fire. 

“Refer to me as a girl again,” Saber seethes, “and I won’t be so merciful—I swear to you, on my honor as a knight,  _I’ll kill_ _you._ ”

Understanding passes through Achilles' face, and his smile slips into a frown. He almost looks...upset, for a lack of a better word all the while Saber waits for an answer, her heavy breathing filling in the silence for them.

Apparently Atalanta's the only responsible person in the Red Faction. This does not fill her with joy or satisfaction, but with being resigned to her fate.   

She considers the rage Saber displays. It is quite a violent reaction, she thinks, as Saber’s free hand twitches—like she’s about to draw her sword. Even Saber’s teeth creak from the force she exerts. This is beyond an passing fancy, and thus, she must assist Saber. She is still a child, after all, even if her rudeness leaves much to be desired—and Atalanta would never force a child to change, unless proven harmful to other children. As it should be; they’re still true to the world and themselves.

The lack of manners are an entirely different issue, one Atalanta fears is a lost cause.

“That is quite enough—from the both of you." Atalanta shoots Achilles a look. “Saber’s battle performance is the matter we should be concerned with. If they are not satisfactory, then we will leave them behind. And Saber, if you'll lose your cool with but a word, then it is clear you'll disrupt our dynamic, leaving us open to the enemy. Take care with how you frame your misgivings.”

Saber’s eyes are suddenly fixated on Atalanta. She returns it, steady as a calm breeze. Though Saber looks like she wants to snap back, Atalanta’s look silences her.

“I'm sorry." Achilles' chipper smile returns. Though Atalanta still takes issue with how Achilles’ viewing Saber as nothing more than a fluffed-up cat beside this sudden turn of events, she senses the seriousness behind his smile. “What am I supposed to say then?”

“Just never call me a girl again,” Saber growls, eyes still on Atalanta. “You got a problem with that?”

Achilles shakes his head as Atalanta steps forward, holding out a hand in placation, saying, “If you say it, then it must be true. Now please let go of Rider. We must discuss your supposed return to Sighisoara.”

“Good.” Apparently satisfied with their acceptance, Saber nods to herself. She lets go of Achilles and returns to her former spot. “Count yourselves lucky that I’m feeling merciful today—” Achilles covers up an amused snort. “—but Archer, just so we’re clear, I’m worth more than the rest of those Red Faction weirdos combined.” Saber looks to be struggling with the urge to not paint her words with red, so Atalanta nods, accepting the apology for what it's worth. 

As long as she proves she can adjust her demeanor around Atalanta, she's fine with it. 

Achilles laughs. “That’s the kind of spirit I want to hear.”

Saber's confusion creates an opening for her to continue with the original subject. 

"Allow us to meet with your Master," Atalanta says, drawing Saber's attention. "Regardless of his lord's desires, his duty is to the Great Holy Grail War if he still calls himself a Master. 

"...you sure?" Saber raises an eyebrow. "He's so stubborn that he thinks camping in the catacombs is way better than sleeping in actual beds. Do it at your own peril."

"Oh? I thought knights were supposed to rough it out for the sake of the people, if necessary," Achilles comments.

Saber whirls on him with all the ferocity of a wolf, barking insults, netting raucous laughter in return. It seems her anger at Achilles' callous remark earlier had found a new outlet. 

All Atalanta does is sigh. Even though she's sure they aren't paying attention to her, she says, "I will be the judge of that." 

_Artemis, grant me your strength._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll die for genderqueer mordred. 
> 
> originally this chapter was going to be fran's but i lost the document a while back and just burned. out on this. so i'm 80% done with the chapter now and if i don't finish it by next week then i'll post a segment with shakespeare, spartacus and karna. i have outlines for the next 4-6 chapters, so hopefully i'll be quicker about the updates. 
> 
> also does anyone want to swap friend codes on fgo na? i deleted a bunch of inactive people the other day.


	4. Chapter 4

It feels like someone's been holding a miniature sun above their heads, so Reika and Jack sit on a park bench after they decided to grab a snack at a nearby café. Warmth is always good, but never that much! It had never been so warm when they were alive, so the heat was more than enough to have them sweating and complaining for relief. 

But being next to Reika, swinging their legs back and forth, is already making them happier. Reika hums quietly as Jack munches on their mint chocolate chip ice cream with gusto, savoring the ice-cold treat. They giggle when their head freezes. It’s a brand-new feeling and it’s not entirely unpleasant.

But they’re aching for different sensation, ever since they went outside today. Their hands are itching, itching, itching to tear out something.

“Hey, Mother, is there any more food at home?" they ask. 

“Oh dear,” Reika murmurs, after a moment. “There’s only a few more hearts in the fridge. We’ll have to move onto the next city soon.”

Jack frowns. Going to the next city means encountering _Servants_. They’re not as strong as other Heroic Spirits and they know it.

They love eating the Magi's juicy hearts but having to deal with the nasty smells to get it out makes it almost not worth it. The magic's so icky it has them recoiling in disgust, because they always remember that man who so rudely interrupted their warmth and then  _banished them to the Throne of Heroes,_ and then there weren't any warmth there, nope, nothing but the freezing darkness and then they hadn't a mother until they found Reika.

Their tummies grumble at the thought of eating another heart and they squeal when Reika giggles and tickles them and they laugh and protest.

But Reika is wrong. 

“Nuh-uh.” Jack shakes their head. “We sensed two more Magi here.”

"Is that so?" 

"Yeah! We know one of them's alone." Jack gives Reika a big smile. "You can come watch us tonight! It'll be fun."

Reika kisses Jack's forehead and they giggle. 

“I’d love to.” 

 

\- - -

 

The blade glints in the growing light, weaving gold amongst cobalt, when he holds it up for a closer inspection. 

Shakespeare has never taken up arms except to examine the delicate balance between skill and idiocy. Flourish in his plays are almost the standard, because while he suspects a certain section prefers reality, his audiences come for entertainment.

It is beyond being a mere pleasure for him to examine the gladius. This gladius is weathered with scratches, some noticeable, some not. Even the bandages around the hilt show signs of wear from strong and sturdy hands. It’s exactly what he expects a character like Spartacus would wield.

Alas, he should get a move on and finish up with [Enchant]. He can admire it all he wishes when Spartacus storms the battlefield as an unstoppable comet. Handing the sword back to Spartacus, Shakespeare sits down on a bench; he whips out a piece of parchment and puts his mind to work. He doesn't care for the way Spartacus sits on the lawn, staring at him with beady eyes. There is work to be done.

His quill flies across the paper, scrawling a poem worthy of Spartacus' reputation. Adjectives, nouns, and verbs line up in a series of sequences perfectly. Pride fills his heart when he determines it to be satisfactory. After applying the poem to the gladius, Shakespeare watches Spartacus tests out a series of slashes and thrusts.

Though he knows it'll be a while before he can see the primary purpose of the poem go into effect, the increased sturdiness and sharpness will serve Spartacus well for now. 

"Wonderful," Spartacus says after settling down. "Simply wonderful. I will fear nothing on the battlefield with this trusty enchanting. You have my thanks, playwright."

"I'm honored to hear your praise," Shakespeare says. "Finding the value in my works is apparently rather scarce these days. Even Shirou, patient as he is, is apparently exasperated with my plays," he adds with a pout.  

“The priest does not sing of your praises?" Spartacus peers at him, strangely considerate. “How very thoughtless of him."

“Indeed!”

"Rebellious sentiments in any format should be praised."

That isn’t quite what Shakespeare was getting at, but he’ll take what he can get. Talking with Spartacus, however frustrating some aspects might be, is rather entertaining. 

He's about to continue this train of thought when a low voice echoes down the hall: "Caster."

There's nothing that particularly stands out in the tone. It's neutral but firm. He glances at Spartacus. The mountain of a man hadn't moved from his spot, staring at Shakespeare blankly, so he most likely doesn't see Karna as a threat to his autonomy. 

"Excuse me," he tells Spartacus. As amusing as the thought of trying to hide Spartacus—had mana signatures not been a very real, annoying thing—Shakespeare likes being alive. So he walks briskly to the courtyard's entrance to intercept Karna. 

Rounding the corner, Shakespeare sees a man with unkempt white hair, clad in golden armor, striding toward him. Every step is unyielding and seeps calculated purpose. Levitating pauldrons remain at rest as the trailing red shifts to watch his back: he has come unarmed. Who else can it be, but the magnanimous spearman of Anga? He comes to a stop a few feet away from Shakespeare and crosses his arms. 

“What a surprise, Lancer!” Shakespeare holds out his arms before bowing deeply. “To think an exalted demigod as yourself would grace me with your presence. Truly, I must express my appreciation. What brings you here?”

He doubts Karna wants to talk to Spartacus. It's also unlikely that Karna would inform Shirou about the duo's meeting unless prompted, but Shakespeare likes to be careful. He's been meticulously setting the stage for a well-deserved payoff, after all. 

Karna’s flat look has Shakespeare chuckling. Without mirth, he must add.  

“Rider and Archer left Sighisoara a few hours ago,” Karna says.

“Oh, might you be displeased how they took off without you?” Always better to have a third member to round off the two foils. In a lightning-fast moment, his mind takes the prospect and runs away with it: Achilles, a hot-blooded hero, Atalanta, the calm mediator, and Karna, a cool-headed rival. Their color schemes clash but it only cements the rivalry’s duality between Karna and Achilles.

Karna blinks, looking genuinely surprised. “What use is there being upset when I have never been acknowledged as a true comrade? I’m not beholden to them and they aren’t beholden to me.”

“That’s a kind way of putting it.” Shakespeare smiles.

“It is,” Karna says. “For you, considering your methods, it is not so much rude as it is intrusive. But why ask something like that when you already know the answer?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Or must I be intrusive as you say to avoid making potential mistakes for assuming otherwise?” Shakespeare clears his throat. “[The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool].”

“For a man of your background, I believe so.”

Shakespeare gasps.

Karna is unmoved.

He puts his hands over his heart.

Karna raises an eyebrow.

“To be made a participant to your famed tongue, sharp as a spear, is something many authors would kill for the chance. Radiant Lancer, I must express my sincere thanks!" Shakespeare beams, brushing off the initial frustration he felt at first. He'd thought for sure that his dramatic reaction would've elicited some sort of annoyance, but it's apparently like wringing an already dry rag. At least this provides some possible material. 

He thinks he should feel like a bug under Karna’s considering gaze. That would've been the case if he had been someone with a weaker heart and an even weaker resolve. But the world being his entire stage is the name of the game—his game. He preens inwardly. 

“Your breath is better served to recitations,” Karna says, after waiting politely for Shakespeare to run out of steam.

He can’t tell if Karna’s unamused. As amusing as this conversation is, he’s vaguely surprised Karna hadn’t stalked out the door yet. He voices this concern.

“It would be discourteous of me to leave mid-conversation. You and your bluntness are inseparable. Having said that, I would like you to answer my question first.”

"I don't suppose this is related to Rider's rampage the other day?" 

"Was it not obvious? Had you not been crass in your questioning about Patroclus, Achilles would've been amenable to your proposals." 

Shakespeare laughs. "As you said earlier, I have a tendency to be zealous in my pursuit for the truth. But to think I would force Rider to see the Black Faction as an outlet for his frustrations... Truly, I did not mean to. I wouldn't want such a fine actor to receive his final curtain call so early."

Karna sighs. "In any case, I did not come to chastise you. I merely wanted to confirm if there were any other factors involved in Rider's decision." 

"Then I am glad I could assist you." Shakespeare beams. "Now then, since you're here, might I interest you in some—" a series of heavy footsteps has Shakespeare looking over his shoulder. 

"Caster? What is occupying your attention so much? I assumed you were like a flighty bird." Spartacus pokes his head around the corner. 

Shakespeare doesn't appreciate the suggestion he's fragile no matter how much it's the truth, and yet he's somewhat pleased Spartacus is using similes. 

Karna's eyes shift over from Shakespeare to Spartacus, dispassionately looking for signs of aggression. Spartacus takes it as the opposite. 

“Are you present to join our cause?" Spartacus’ question is no better than cocking a gun. "The rebellion will accept anyone willing to fight for their freedom."

Shakespeare almost slaps a hand over his face. 

“I have already pledged my loyalty to my Master, and even then, my king remains in my heart.” Karna's answer is no better than telling the owner to fuck off. Sometimes he disliked how willing Karna is in answering questions. 

If they were rich, Shakespeare would have made a killing off teaching them gentle linguistics.

Spartacus' nose flares, not unlike an ox. That's Shakespeare's cue to shuffle off to the side in case Spartacus thinks Karna's red cape is acceptable for charging. 

"You would shackle yourself to a gilded sham?" Spartacus asks. "I do not understand how a proud warrior could stand to serve oppressors. To commit atrocities in their name, to damage your honor and pride for their sake...you make yourself nothing more than a dog at the mercy of his cruel master." 

The air grows hot in a split second. Shakespeare mimes a fan but Karna ignores him. 

“My king is not a stranger to insults, Berserker." There is a growing glint in Karna's cobalt eyes. "But I cannot stand idly by while others mock my friend.”

Shakespeare's senses are tingling and he stops his miming in favor of the much more intriguing situation before him. He listens closely for the growing edge to Karna’s voice and thinks about how this is the Hero of Charity. The man who was so envious of his half-brother, a stripling nineteen years his junior, went along with a murder plot, after being humiliated at Draupadi's Swayamvara. Shakespeare couldn't believe Karna was the same man upon their first meeting. Surely the resentment rooted within his legends would've been obvious from the start—taking the form of a hot-blooded demigod. Literally.  

If his loyalty to Duryodhana can never be eclipsed, then how does the peeling of his armor compute into that equation? He surely would’ve never been felled by Arjuna’s bow and had won the war. Perhaps there is a semblance of selfishness and pride underneath Karna’s frosty exterior after all. It’s not his fault that he prefers immediate catharses more. Karna and Atalanta’s lack of immediate charm points don't negate their important roles as magnificent actors—or warriors, he should say; but as he thought before, their purposes were to serve as one-note antagonists.  

He sees it now. People like Karna are always worth his time. Though he can be more interesting, it isn’t as if Shakespeare will reject an actor based on their outward appearances. Shakespeare makes a note to mull over this revelation later. He can intervene and pour oil on the fire by informing Spartacus of Karna's legends, but he suspects Karna will not take Spartacus' unyielding attention well. He'd like to remain on good terms to maneuver the actors around before anything irreparable happens. 

“I beg you to stay your barbarous tongue, Lancer.” Shakespeare hastily grabs Karna by the shoulders and tries to steer him away until Spartacus’ literal hackles ease up. Thankfully, Karna doesn’t dig in his heels. “Berserker’s own tongue is a force to be reckoned with. But it is not his fault he is at mercy to its whims.”

“I will not deny it.”

Such arrogance! Shakespeare almost swoons. He’s captivated. Hook, line, and sinker, as people say nowadays.

“Yes, of course, but for the sake of victory, perhaps the two of you should reconvene on the battlefield?” he asks.

Karna's reply is cut-off by Spartacus. 

“Caster, you may quit your entreaties, for I never mind meeting another oppressed soul,” Spartacus declares with a ghastly smile. “I have gladly embraced the shepherd’s way. If it means dragging this one by the neck in leading it to the watering hole, then so be it.”

Karna slowly tilts his head and stares at Spartacus. “I understand you are a victim of your time's system, but your experiences are not universal.”

"But there are universal truths, and it seems your eyes are not adapted to such a sight." Spartacus continues to smile as though Karna is speaking gibberish. With Spartacus' [Madness Enhancement], it's practically the truth.  

Shakespeare’s hands are itching for a quill to record the scene before him as Karna and Spartacus keep talking, but he fears it’ll disrupt the sequence. He has never been so happy to be summoned for this Great Holy Grail War. Where else could he find duels of the psyche before the bloodbath? Things just get more interesting by the second.

 

\- - -

 

When Shirou finishes his prayers for the day, he takes his time in cleaning up. After they take the Holy Grail, he suspects he won’t have the luxury of praying. Not if the more than probable angry Red Servants have anything to say about it. He already had an inkling of the outcome, due to seeing Achilles’ legendary temper when Shakespeare’s leash slacked. He counts himself lucky Karna was there to stop Achilles. 

Nevertheless, he busies himself with the mundane routine he’s been doing for the last sixty years. It is grounding—and relieving, he thinks, to know it will reach a catharsis in a few days. 

“Have you decided when you will set the trap?” Semiramis’ contralto solidifies with her form as she materializes inside the church, a few seconds after he stands up. “The assigned Magi are almost gone and I suspect the Association will think twice before sending reinforcements. That is, if they still have half the brain I believed them to possess.”

“Tonight.” Shirou stands up. “Unexpected as it was, Rider and Archer will distract the Black Faction. This opportunity won't be wasted." 

Semiramis huffs slightly and crosses her arm in obvious distaste.

“I still wish you’d let me punish them appropriately,” she mutters. “Well, we shall see if they can survive their decision’s repercussions first.”  

"If you feel you must then as long as you don't harm them physically, I'm fine with it," Shirou says. "Do you have the bottle ready?"

Semiramis laughs. It is not a nice sound, but Shirou has heard worse. As she forms a vial filled with a green liquid and hands it over, she comments, "To think I would be granted such an understanding Master...I must express my gratitude."

"Thank you," Shirou says, making sure to not prolong physical contact. If Semiramis asked for his body in return for her power, he would never hesitate, but this was most definitely a trap or a test.

He holds up the vial for examination, staring at the liquid. A heavy concentration of mana lurks within its unassuming depths. This will be sufficient, since he has no doubt that Semiramis already prepared an antidote. 

Semiramis is watching him, the playful air to her now gone.

“Master,” she starts, frowning slightly. “I cannot stop you from going down this route, but as your Servant, I insist that you take Lancer if you want me to stay here and focus on the ritual. You are not the only one whose life hinges on another’s whims.” 

Shirou gives her a quick smile.

“Of course,” he reassures her, pocketing the vial. "I take it you won't allow any other Red Servant to watch my back?”

“Archer’s pragmatism is far from the kind of protection you need and Rider’s more likely to keep you into the crossfire as bait. Not to mention, that scruffy Saber wouldn't know proper chivalry if it hit them in the face...” she adds with a sneer. She must be too fed up with Spartacus and Shakespeare to even consider them. Understandable. 

Shirou chuckles. "Then I might as well tell him right away." 

"Hmph. Please do. At least one Servant around here understands his position." 

He erases his stray thoughts, smooths over his excitement, and opens the channel linking him and Karna.

 _Lancer,_ _I will be seeking out Assassin of Black tonight. Please lend me your assistance._  

He can feel the raised eyebrow from Karna in his reply:  _Are you not the Master of our Assassin anymore? I fail to see how I am relevant to your fight. I am no more your Servant than any other Red Servant._

 _She will be occupied with preparing our assault._  Shirou sends apologetic feelings through the link. _In any case, I'd prefer to have a Servant who'll look the part for my plan. Assassin excels in many areas, but her appearance in battle is not one of them._

He almost considers bringing in Karna's Master's orders as leverage, but he suspects Karna would grow suspicious even if he still lent his spear. 

 _Understood,_  comes Karna's short reply.

He lets out a sigh of relief. Communicating with a Servant who can see through almost anything is playing with fire, except Shirou's hands are coated in oil. He turns back to Semiramis. 

"It's been confirmed," Shirou tells her. "I hope that's enough to reassure you." 

"Of course, Master." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to prep for my oral comm’s final, so this came out a bit later.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep fucking procrastinating on fran's chapter. why

“I was so bored since there’s nothing to do around here. It’s been driving me nuts that it’s been centuries since my time, and this damn town doesn’t have anything worthwhile!” Saber groans as she walks back to the bench, paper bag in hand. “You know, I thought you guys were gonna be weirdos like the priest, but I guess I lucked out for once! Thought I was gonna have to go wild in the forest to calm down.”

Atalanta stifles a chuckle at the bounce in Saber’s stride. But by now she knows Saber won’t appreciate it, despite it being devoid of malice.

Achilles just snorts, throwing an arm over the bench. “As if it’s hard, not being in cahoots with Shirou—but he’s not a bad kid. I still don’t understand why you’re against him. What did he ever do you? You talked, for what...a minute?” At her suspicious look, he adds, “I sensed you in the church.”

“Not creepy. At all,” Saber retorts, plopping down next to him on the bench, swinging her legs back and forth after popping a pork roll into her mouth.

Unlike Atalanta—she remains invisible—Achilles has the good fortune of clothes that doesn’t scream “ancient warrior summoned to fight for a wish-granting cup”. Remove the armor and scarf, and he’d look like any other young man on the street, if not obnoxiously handsome. She holds back a sigh after Achilles bestows a cocky smile on a group of giggling teenagers passing by for the third time.

Saber doesn’t seem bothered, aside from an annoyed huff. This suggests familiarity with someone like Achilles and Atalanta scowls at the thought of an adult acting this way around a child long enough to foster desensitization. People can be too impressionable at this age.

“It was my [Instinct]. He also wanted Master to reveal my True Name,” Saber explains. “His Servant reminded me of my witch of a mother, so nothing good was gonna happen. That’s when we got the hell out of there.”

There is...something about Shirou that puts her on edge. A young man such as himself, shouldn’t be so easy-going and yet determined to win the Grail. This does not mean she wishes him to die—he still has his life before him. Semiramis will simply have to keep a close eye on him.

“I can’t blame you for wanting to keep some things hidden,” Achilles remarks. “But I gotta agree with you on Assassin.” he sighs. “She’s completely unbearable, and I’ve dealt with some incredibly frustrating rulers in my lifetime.”

Atalanta has the distinct impression that if Saber had less dignity, her eyes would’ve been sparkling at her newfound bond of mutual hate with Achilles. She’s been soaking up their attention faster than Atalanta doles it out.

However, there’s a problem preventing Atalanta from completely enjoying herself. Ironically Saber herself. Saber’s description of her mother is troubling. So far she has all the signs of an attention-starved child who never learned how to cope or heal as she grew up. Saber’s bravado prevents her from acting on her predictions. In the end she has to settle for giving Saber her full attention and warmth, because of the event unfolding before her.

“Let me try one,” Achilles says.

“Only Archer,” Saber says with a huff, turning to her and passing a few into her hands. Atalanta is touched. “You haven’t offered me anything in return. In fact, you’ve been nothing but rude to me!”

This does not dissuade Achilles because he is the son of Peleus, shepherd of the people, hero-killer, and many other things. Saber is but a hissing kitten before him and his lightning fast theft leaves her stunned by his audacity. He pops the treat into his mouth with a smug grin. Saber keeps staring at him as her expression slowly melts into a righteous glare.

“So have you.” Achilles shrugs and goes in for the steal again. “I’ll make it up to you with a spar?”

His second attempt is foiled. Saber grabs his wrist and bites down on his hand hard, taking the treat with her. Achilles rips his hand out of her mouth but Saber’s already standing up, backing away. She covers her bag protectively. Her grin is less livid, perhaps dulled by the promise of a good fight. Even as Saber heckles him for being so slow, he looks more surprised than anything else. Atalanta is too, honestly, because she hadn't expected Saber to retaliate in such a manner. 

Achilles wiggles his fingers experimentally and says, "Is that the best you've got?" 

"What are you on about?" Saber seizes his hand and flips it over for the site of the incident. Achilles continues to look amused as her annoyance spikes upon her realization. As expected, there's no trace of Saber's munching. "...huuuuh?! Hey, did you heal it already?! Can't you handle one bite?"

"Not the kind of bites you're thinking of." Achilles winks and pulls his hand out of a slack grip. "Face it, you just can't injure me. But if you wanna go for round two, I'm not gonna stop you." 

Saber stares blankly before she gets it, disgust wiping away every other previous emotion. "You're lucky you owe me a spar. I'll be generous and let you stay in peak condition so your loss can't be blamed on your hand." 

He chuckles and glances at Atalanta. 

"I'd prefer it if you hold off for tonight," she says, answering his unspoken question. 

"You got it, sis." 

"Anyway, is your Master finished with his business yet?" Atalanta turns to Saber. 

She's still grumbling to herself about the bite. But the ire she's harboring for Achilles is apparently the deciding factor for finishing off the bag of pork rolls first, forcing them to wait. 

"Yeah," Saber answers after crossing her arms in concentration. "He's on his way." 

She looks frustrated, and Atalanta recalls her mentioning the "going back to Sighisoara" problem. Aside from her Master, she and Achilles are the only ones who'll probably interact with her on friendly terms. She might as well help keep Saber's mind off things. Atalanta switches to a new subject, asking her about the jobs she'd done so far. Saber brightens almost instantly and Atalanta's heart warms to see such a sunny smile.

 ~~~

Shishigou Kairi is a scruffy man, dressed in dark leathers. Atalanta’s nose wrinkles at the smoky fumes he carries over to them. The blood is only marginally better since there’s even one of those abominable sticks she saw earlier in his hand and lit.

“Hey, Master!” Saber drawls out as a greeting.

He returns her cheerful grin with a subdued wave. Behind his sunglasses, Atalanta knows his eyes are fixed on Achilles. He’s done nothing but laze against the bench like a lion and Kairi’s on edge just being in his line of sight. She expects nothing less from a magus.

“Shishigou Kairi,” the man says when he stops in front of them, albeit closer to Saber.

“Yo.” Achilles’ smile is easy-going. “Rider of Red, here and ready to fight. I hope you’re not planning on sitting out until the War starts.”

Saber snickers at Kairi’s carefully neutral face. “Apparently not,” he says. “Since we won’t be leaving.”

“Yes!” she crows, fist-pumping once in victory. Atalanta can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.

“Should you really be happy about that? You go off on your own for less than a day, and I come back to find you terrorizing Trifas and taking in strays.” Kairi took a whiff of his cigarette. “Anything else I should know? Or is the town going to be ashes by tomorrow morning?”

She huffs. “Do you really have so little faith in me?”

“I don’t know.” Kairi scratches his beard idly. “You tell me since you’re going to be a rowdy king, I fully expect you to be in the thick of everything rowdy.”

“Ha!” just like earlier, Saber soaks up Kairi’s roundabout praise.

“Anyway, Lord El-Melloi sent me a missive this morning. Apparently Father Shirou wants to take care of Assassin of Black himself and we should stay in Trifas. No point in forcing us to come back after getting here.”

That’s her cue.

“I suppose he also mentioned us in passing as an explanation,” Atalanta remarks, materializing.

The cigarette falls out of Kairi’s mouth. His hand flies to his side, presumably for a weapon. It stops short of his jacket, hovering, when he realizes Saber’s happily finishing off her snacks. And it’s Atalanta’s turn to purge the slight hostility from herself when he simply sighs and fondly shakes his head at her.

“...yeah.” Kairi says, hand twitching as he picks up the cigarette and tosses it into a trash can. “Father Shirou did mention two Red Servants coming here for reconnaissance. Though I think ‘runaways’ is a better description. He didn’t sound very happy over the whole thing, but said they’d probably work with us.”

“Sounds about right.” Achilles leans forward, chin resting in the palm of a hand. “Guess we’ll be stuck with you for a while yet, Saber.”

Saber crumbles the empty bag when she smacks her palm with a fist. “I’ll show the both of you just how much respect you should be paying me.” she grins fearlessly.

“As much as I'd like to see that, it's not up to me," Achilles replies, and nods at Atalanta.

She sighs at his spontaneity. “Me and Rider were set on retreating should there be a Noble Phantasm.”

The two tilt their heads in confusion like two puppies.

“‘Were?’” Saber and Achilles chorus, with differing degrees of heat. Kairi offers a quick “Smart” that goes unnoticed.

“Yes. I cannot leave you alone to the Black Faction’s machinations if I can help it. We let ourselves be sensed during our journey.” Atalanta doesn’t add her speculations about Saber’s true age. Incurring her wrath at this point is detrimental to her plans.

“Because you think I’ll screw it up if it’s just me and my Master even after dumping this on us?” Saber glares at her. “I can take care of myself, you know!”

“Because your safety is a part of my wish.” Atalanta watches her glare break and be reconstructed into utter bewilderment. Does she not understand Atalanta’s honesty? “Besides, if you are to be a king, you must get used to being assisted by others. A king cannot stand alone.” _Unfortunately_. Her father was not alone in his accursed plans.

“W-well, of course!” Saber splutters, crossing her arms in poorly hidden embarrassment. 

Achilles muffles a chuckle and Atalanta turns to Kairi, ignoring his thoughtful expression. “Though I have my reservations, I agree with Rider in scouting the enemy’s roster. I suspect they’ll be equally hesitant to display Noble Phantasms tonight. Will you join us?”

“It can’t be helped, if you’re already here and Saber’s ready to bash them around,” Kairi answers after a moment in silence. “Since you’ve given this thought: got any ideas? We weren't exactly looking for another fight until the others get over here.”

“I shall shadow you,” Atalanta decides. “Rider will surely be more than a match for whoever takes the bait. Saber, I presume you’ll join him?”

“That’s right.” she nods vehemently, but she won’t look Atalanta in the eye. “I can’t allow myself to be anywhere else.”

“And where is this ‘anywhere’ supposed to be?” Kairi asks. At Saber’s blank look, he continues, “I’m just one Magus, remember? They’ll definitely be taking homunculi and golems along with their Masters.”

“But aren’t these Masters like old fogies? The kind who likes honorable duels, one-on-one, that sort of thing?”

Kairi shrugs. “The one who recruited me told me about their leader, Darnic, and all sorts of tales showing just how dedicated he is to his cause. In any case, I’d prefer not to assume.” he glances at Atalanta. “No offense. I’m sure you’re capable.”

“I do not need to hear what you think about me.” Atalanta doesn’t deign to look at him. “However, you do present a pressing point. You must know the lay of the land; where do you suppose we draw them out?”

“Everywhere’s the same.” Saber sighs loudly. “Except this castle we found the other day, but it’s no good. Master set off a trap—“

“Your presence contributed,” Kairi interjects.

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Cause I’m a top-rate Heroic Spirit.”

“Of course,” Kairi says, like there was no other answer. Saber preens while he continues, “The castle had a detection field set up inside. We were ambushed by golems and homunculi faster than you can say, ‘the enemy!’”

“How did they fare against you?” Atalanta asks. “Poorly, I expect.”

Kairi nods. “Most of the golems broke under one hit from Saber. Three for the outliers. The homunculi weren’t a problem.”

“It’s ‘cause he refuses to fight like a regular magus,” Saber adds.

“That, and I’m familiar with hunting down magi and the like,” he corrects, not unkindly.

Planning goes a little smoother after that, if Atalanta ignores the occasional sniping between Saber and her Master. Still, she’s pleased Saber’s comfortable enough to engage in such informal conversations with Kairi. But she doesn’t need Achilles egging her on, so she takes charge, as much as she dislikes the prospect. Winning the Holy Grail and keeping Saber safe—no matter how likely it is that she'll have to challenge Saber—spurs her on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently joe zieja (achilles’ ENG VA) calls byleth “teach” in three houses. i might use that instead of teacher when chiron and achilles interact.


End file.
